


Fireside

by EWGrant



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, John Watson is a Saint, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Reading Aloud, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EWGrant/pseuds/EWGrant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gives Sherlock a piece of the childhood he never had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireside

Sherlock strode into 221B one Sunday evening, more fatigued than usual. It had been a good, oh, thirty, maybe thirty two hours since he last slept and it was finally catching up with him. Sherlock disagreed with sleep - why waste valuable time sleeping when he could be thinking or testing how much salt it would take for a human eye to dissolve completely?

He ascended the stairs and opened the door to the flat, warm musky air hitting him instantly. It was the smell of home - the fire was burning, crackling and giving the room a faint, earthy scent. It was a stark contrast to the home he had grown up in as a child; everything was neat, clinical and lacked the warmth and comfort of a typical family home. But back then, there had been no John Watson. Un-looping his scarf and hanging it by the door with his coat, he eyed John in his peripherals and turned his head to hide his smile.

John was snuggled in his chair which he had dragged slightly closer to the fireplace, one leg resting on the opposite knee with a book leant against his thigh. His other hand was occupied balancing a mug of tea on the arm of the chair. He was so immersed in his reading material that he didn’t even acknowledge Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock wondered if this is what it was like to be John, when he himself delved so deep into his mind that the outside world was non-existent.

Out of uncharacteristic courtesy, Sherlock chose not to disturb him and made his way into the kitchen, busying himself with making his own coffee, which in itself was a rarity. After stirring in his two sugars, he leant his back against the counters and sipped the warm liquid, observing John through the arch into the living area. He watched as he licked his thumb to turn the page of his book, resting his teeth on his bottom lip, his eyes scanning left to right with impressive speed.

There was something about this scene that Sherlock never wanted to interrupt. It was just so… Normal. In truth, both of their lives severely lacked normality. What was ordinary about spending most days hunched over dead bodies and chasing mass criminals? Sherlock wondered if John ever regretted entering Sherlock’s bizarre life.

Gulping down half the mug of scalding liquid, Sherlock re-entered the living room and sat opposite John, in his own armchair. Setting his mug down on the side-table, he shrugged off his suit jacket, toed off his shoes and brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them, still watching John. 

After a minute, John placed his finger in his book to mark his place before looking up to sip his tea. It was only then that he noticed Sherlock was sat there, watching him intently. He nearly spilt the contents of his mug over himself in the shock of his presence. “When did you get here?” he asked, confused as to why he didn’t hear him flounce in.

“About ten minutes ago,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, but there was a softness in his eyes and tone that was rarely seen. “You were reading your book. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

John raised his eyebrows, a slight smile on his lips. “Didn’t want to disturb me? That’s new. Are you feeling okay?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I can be considerate, when I want to be.”

“So you just always choose not to be?”

Sherlock ignored his comment. “What are you reading?”

He smiled guiltily. “A book about… Well, bees, actually. Weirdly. I found it on your shelf. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s… That’s fine. Any good?”

John sipped his tea and licked his lips before speaking. “Er, I guess. I don’t actually like bees that much. Got stung really badly as a kid. Haven’t you ever read this?”

“Only a few times,” Sherlock lied. Actually, he had the book memorised from cover to cover. However, he found John’s childhood anecdote far more interesting and filed it away for later.

John nodded and closed the book properly, reaching behind him to lay it on the desk. They sat in an amicable silence for a minute, before John spoke again. “Why exactly do you have a book about -” he stopped mid-sentence. “Never mind. You have a skull on the mantlepiece. A book about bees is hardly a novelty.”

A smile flitted across Sherlock’s increasingly sleepy features. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you read before,” he mused.

“Mm, I tend to be a bit preoccupied. You know, with dead bodies and such.”

He chuckled. “Maybe I should get a new assistant. That would free you some time for leisurely reading.”

“Well, you could try, but I’m not sure anyone else would put up with you.”

Sherlock knew he was joking, but John’s words resonated within him. It was true - nobody would tolerate his abrasiveness and total lack of respect for anyone’s feelings. That’s why he didn’t have friends. He wondered daily why John was still here at all. Probably just needed the flat-share.

John noted the tiny flicker of hurt in Sherlock’s eyes as he began to skip off into his own thoughts. “Hey,” he said gently, leaning forward in his seat. “I’m just kidding. Well, I’m not - nobody would put up with you. But… That’s not what I do, you know.” His voice trailed off into a whisper.

“What? What don’t you do?” He was too tired to correct his own terrible English.

“You know… Put up with you.” John cleared his throat, as he always did when conversations became a little too deep for his liking.

Sherlock too shifted uneasily and nodded, appreciating his comment. He decided to change the subject; he didn’t need to be reminded of his sentiment growing like an irritating rash spreading on the back of his knees. “Mother used to try and read to me as a child, but I used to get frustrated when she didn’t pronounce words correctly.”

John smiled. “What did you get her to read? The Encyclopedia Britannica?”

He shook his head. “No, mostly foreign titles. Russian, French, German, anything I could reach from the shelves in the library.”

John nearly choked on his tea again, before setting it down on the desk behind, beside the book about bees. “Well, no wonder! What kind of child reads books in Russian? Probably only a Holmes.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement and lifted his eyes to look at the ceiling, retreating into thoughts about his childhood. He had always wished he had conventional childhood memories - images of being curled in bed whilst Mummy read to him, doing special voices for all the silly characters in the children’s books. Pictures of him and Mycroft rolling in the grass, playing with a frisbee, having pretend fights and playing make-believe pirates. But none of those pictures were real. Instead, he had isolated himself and sat alone in bed at night, reading classic literature to himself and doing experiments instead of playing with his brother.

“Did your mother read to you as a child, John?” He asked, coming out of his reverie.

“Er, yeah, probably. I think so. Nothing in Russian, though.”

“I wish I hadn’t criticised Mummy so much,” he admitted, accidentally speaking his thoughts aloud. He was too tired to care and too tired to stop them. “I imagine being read to would have been quite… Nice.”

After thinking for a few moments, John hesitated before readjusting himself in his chair and clearing his throat. “Hey,” he said softly again, as before. He was always delicate with Sherlock when he knew he was vulnerable. It was rare, but it reminded John that he was human after all and not just a machine. Sherlock met his eyes and John gestured for him to come closer, before tentatively patting his lap as an invitation. “I’ll, er… I’ll read to you. If you… You know. If you wanted. If that’s not… Weird.”

Sherlock processed his offer for a second before uncurling himself from his chair and slowly, carefully folding himself into John’s warm lap. John wrapped one arm lightly around his shoulders and reached down beside his armchair with the other, fishing for a book off the pile. He pulled one up that had a cracked leather cover and he could just about make out the lettering that read Classic Children’s Stories. How apt. John suspected it was probably an extortionately priced first-edition, too.

He flipped to a random page and began reading, careful not to stumble over his words, lest Sherlock interrupt and tell him he was rubbish at this and then he would go to his bedroom and sulk and be sad alone. If he was going to be sad, for some reason John preferred him to be sad in the comfort and safety of his own lap.

Sherlock didn’t say a word and allowed John to read at his own pace, memorising the way each word sounded in his voice. He even added funny voices for the characters, almost as though he had been reading Sherlock’s earlier thoughts. How easily John made him feel like a child! A real child, someone cared for and protected. He had a feeling that he would be utterly embarrassed about this clingy, needy episode tomorrow, but for now he relished in the intimacy he had so missed out on.

When John came to the end of the tale, he paused before looking down at Sherlock’s face, which was gently rested against the shoulder of his oatmeal cable knit jumper, whilst his impossibly long legs dangled over one arm of the chair. “How did I do?”

Sherlock looked up and smiled shyly. “Better than mother, but then this book was in English, so it’s hardly a fair comparison.”

John laughed genuinely. “True point. I’ll try French next time.”

Grinning, Sherlock reluctantly, but gracefully detangled himself from John and set to make his way to bed. He would allow himself two, maybe three hours before getting up again. He just couldn’t stand wasting so much time being comatose. He didn’t know how John did it.

John was still watching him, fondness even Sherlock’s inexperience couldn’t deny. His heart swelled for his flatmate and for the first time, he didn’t want to stab the feeling of sentiment with a meat dagger.

“Thank you, John Watson,” Sherlock whispered, leaning down and kissing his cheek, before slipping into his bedroom and collapsing on his bed to dream of children’s fables, told in the voice of his army doctor.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea initially came to me when I thought "you know, I really wouldn't mind John Watson reading a book to me so I could stare at his face without being creepy." Then I thought - "hey, if I can't have that, then Sherlock sure as hell can." Also, just fancied some fluff. Whatever. Enjoy!


End file.
